


when i close my eyes (i think of you)

by totallyunrelated



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Divorce, F/M, Soviet Union, brainwashed soviet assassin duo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21857446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totallyunrelated/pseuds/totallyunrelated
Summary: The Avengers, once the most powerful (the only) superhero team Earth has ever had, are no more. After the events of Civil War (that's what they're calling it on the news), Steve, Bucky and Natasha have fled to Wakanda, now fugitives on the wrong side of the law. There's no easy way to fix this, not even for Natasha, ex-Soviet superspy and assassin with so many talents it would probably take an entire tree to list them all.Natasha - not that she'd ever admit it - is lost. And it might just take a fellow brainwashed Soviet assassin to help her find her way again.An exploration into the complex relationships between Natasha, Bucky and Clint and what it takes to make things right.Takes place after Captain America: Civil War.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Laura Barton, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	1. Natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeing Bucky go into cryo stirs memories in Natasha's head of long ago. 
> 
> Natasha reminisces about her relationship with Clint.

She's standing on the other side of a one-way mirror, watching silently as Bucky ( _James_ ) and Steve converse quietly, the cryo chamber open behind Bucky like a white coffin. Around her, there's the muted hustle and bustle of top-notch medical staff rushing around with chemicals, stretchers and the like, preparing for Bucky's stay in the ice. 

If she had her way, this wouldn't be happening right now. But it's Bucky's choice, and she knows she's going to have to respect that. Especially as he wouldn't take too kindly to her interfering, seeing as he has no idea who she is. She tries to pretend like the mere thought of that doesn't hurt like a direct stab into her heart. Every time she looks at the chamber waiting to welcome him back into its icy grasp, she has to physically restrain herself from bursting into the room and dragging him far, far away from it, the memory of the last time she'd seen that device replaying in her head in HD - 

_"Natalia!"_

_She is silent, perpetually aware of her two handlers standing inches behind her, hands on their guns, ready to act if she tried anything. Knows that the punishment for showing emotion in this moment will be worse than anything she's ever dreamed. In her mind she is railing, screaming, tearing him away from that chair, that chamber, but in reality she doesn't move a muscle._

_"Watch and learn, little spider," the cruel voice hisses in her ear menacingly. "Remember this. The only reward for betrayal will be this."_

_She's screaming for him, reaching for him, no no no not him, but outwardly she remains calm and still, the perfect Black Widow. His eyes are still fixed on her, pain distorting his features, but still she does not move._

"Nat?"

Anyone else would have jumped, but Natasha is a highly-trained professional. She does not so much as twitch as the memory splinters apart and she is confronted with Steve Rogers's big blue eyes at close range. She raises an arched brow at him.

"You okay?" There's so much concern in his voice, and the little girl who was brutally whipped into being the Black Widow snarls at it before Natasha ruthlessly pushes her back into her corner and locks the door. She's not that girl anymore, and Steve is her - friend.

"Fine." Her reply is crisp, curt, and Steve's brow furrows before she redirects his attention back to Barnes. "How's he doing?"

Steve's frown deepens. "He really wants this," he says. "I've tried talking to him about it, but he won't budge. Says it's the only way he can keep himself from hurting people." There's anger and sadness clear in his voice; Steve has always been blunt, straightforward, preferring to charge instead of plot, the very opposite of Natasha herself.

There's so many things she wants to say - chief among them _don't let him do this_ \- but she bites it back and says instead, "It's his choice, Steve."

"I know that," he sighs. "It's just - I don't have to like it."

"You don't," she agrees, wondering when _she_ became a person who was good at advice and consolation and compassion. "You just need to be there for him."

Steve gives her a grateful glance and places his hand lightly on her shoulder. On the other side of the glass, Barnes sits in the container, the doctor beside him checking his vitals and running all the necessary tests. He glances over at the glass they're standing behind, and for a second she swears he looks straight at her, before reminding herself that he can't see them. He lies down and the pain spikes in her chest, every muscle telling her _get him out of there_ , but she doesn't move as the lid of the chamber closes and he disappears from view. Throat tight, she closes her eyes and bows her head slightly. 

Next to her, Steve also looks distressed, but when he catches her looking he forces his lips up into a smile and pats her back harder than necessary. 

"Come on," he says in a forced cheerful tone. "Let's go see what this palace has to offer, shall we?"

* * *

When she gets back to the quarters T'Challa had so generously prepared for her upon their arrival into Wakanda, her phone screen is lit up with a text. Frowning, she scoops it up, already pondering the possibilities of who it could be. It's a new, burner phone, and she only gave the number to three people: Clint, Steve and Tony. That last one is a bit of wishful thinking; she and Tony had not exactly parted on good terms. She highly doubts that he would call her.

The text is from an unknown number, but she can immediately tell that it's from Clint by the atrocious spelling and lack of punctuation. Clint is currently on house arrest due to the _situation_ they're in currently, on his farm back in Iowa with his wife and kids. It's not that much different, to be honest, from his year of retirement. She hates to think that he got off lucky, but the truth is that he _did_. He gets to be home, in a place that he loves, not having to be constantly on the run like she had been. 

She chews her lip, debating, before tossing the phone face down on the dresser without replying to his message, and flops down on the bed with a sigh.

The thing is, Clint's her best friend. Of course he is; how could he not be? He was the one who saved her from a dark future when he was supposed to kill her. He brought her in, a feral young girl, and listened to her and was patient with her until the day came when he inevitably wormed his way through her walls and stayed there. He's her partner, the one who's saved her life maybe like a million times - not that she hasn't returned the favour - and most importantly he's the one who's always been by her side and never left even when she's stabbed him (multiple times), threatened to kill him (also multiple times) and fatally wounded him (okay, that was _once_.) But then. But then ... he left. And she _knows_ it's not fair to think of it like that, because he has a whole entire family which depends on him (but so does _she_ ) and she always knew that one day he was going to go back to them for good and leave her behind. She just ... didn't expect it to be so soon. She couldn't help feeling betrayed, feeling abandoned, when he told her he was going to retire, and she'd never coped well with _feelings._ So she cut him out. Gave one-word, ambiguous replies when he texted her, never picked up the phone, only came to visit once for Christmas and once for each of his kids' birthdays. She'd thought if she cut him out, the feelings would go away, too ... only they hadn't. And now ... now everything is so fucked up, and she needs her best friend so badly but she can't bring herself to reach out after nearly a year of near-radio silence. 

And besides. She's being selfish; he probably doesn't need her, anyway. He never did.


	2. Clint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into Clint's retirement and how it all went wrong.

On the other side of the world, it's 2 a.m. and Clint Barton is currently perched in a tree, in the middle of the dark forest, mindlessly sharpening an arrowhead. He's wedged in the nook where the branch meets the trunk in a position that couldn't _possibly_ ever be considered comfortable but strangely works for him. Periodically, he slips his hand in his pocket to check his phone, but the screen remains irritatingly silent. The dark screen seems to be judging him; then again, _everything_ seems to be judging him nowadays, from Laura to Cooper to the baker, even to _Nathaniel_ who's only two and therefore should not have the ability to judge _anyone_.

He lets out a sigh, nocks an arrow in his bow and lets it fly. It thuds into the bullseye he had painted two days after he got home on the largest, tallest tree he could find on the farm, but he can't even feel satisfaction at the perfect shot. Which is how he knows he's completely fucked. It's only been a month since he got put on house arrest, but that's plenty of time for things to go utterly, irrevocably wrong.

Well. 

If he's being honest, things started to go wrong way, way before he ever got put on house arrest. The house arrest just kind of exacerbated things, because everything's now staring him right in the face and if Clint Barton had a fatal flaw it was dealing with things that were staring him right in the face. Because he usually fucked them up. Big time. Even if those things were things that absolutely _could not_ be fucked up. Ever. Like: his marriage and his family, for instance. And Natasha.

Maybe he should start from the beginning.

**then: 2015**

"Honey, I'm home!"

Laura Barton's head pops around the kitchen doorway at the sound of his voice; as soon as she spots him, she's nearly running towards him, a breathtaking smile lighting up her whole face. He scoops her up into his arms and breathes in the scent of her shampoo, revelling in the feeling of holding her after far too long an absence. She takes his face in her hands and kisses him passionately, thoroughly, taking advantage of the fact that they're alone in the house, with Cooper and Lila at school and Nate presumably sleeping upstairs. Clint had made sure to time his arrival perfectly.

When they finally part, her face is red and her bun has come undone from him running his hands through it, but the beaming smile is still on her face.

"You weren't supposed to be back until next week," she says, looking like Christmas has come early.

"I wanted to surprise you," he answers, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. She still hasn't let go of him yet, and he too is reluctant to relinquish his grip on her; these moments are few and far in between, and they've both learned to cherish it when they can. But now ... Clint feels a giddy smile taking over his face at the thought. Now they can have this whenever they want to.

"What's with that look on your face?" she asks teasingly, brushing her knuckles lightly over his cheeks. 

"What look?" Clint asks, trying to act innocent, but she's always been able to see through him.

"That," she says, pointing to his face. "Like you're plotting something."

"I am not," he protests, but she merely arches a brow. It reminds him of Natasha. She _always_ looks at him like that when she's calling out his bullshit. He shakes away the thought of his partner and the lingering guilt that follows. He can't afford to dwell on that, on the look on her face when she found out. Not now.

"Spill it," she says sternly, but with a twinkle in her eye.

"Well..." He draws the word out teasingly, enjoying the way she laughs and hits him with her dishcloth.

"Come on, Barton, I haven't got all day!"

He's missed this, missed it so much; nothing can compare to the feeling he gets when he's with her, with his family. Sometimes he wonders how he went so long without it.

"I'm retiring," he says, unable to keep it in any longer.

There's disbelief on Laura's face, but there's also hope shining brighter than any star. There's always been an unspoken agreement between them that one day, he would come back. One day, he would retire. It was always _one day_ , and Laura never pushed, partly because his job was what kept the money coming in (that they were in dire need of with _three_ kids) and partly because she knew that even if she asked he would never actually do it, not until he physically couldn't. And she was always okay with that - she loved him too much to ask him to choose between two things he loved. But he also knows that even if she's never said it, she _wants_ him to come back, be a full-time dad, a full-time husband.

"Really?" There's so much raw hope in her voice, but also a distinct tone of _you had better not be joking, Clint Barton, or you are_ so _sleeping on the couch tonight, I don't care if you just got back._

"Really. I promise. No more Avenger-ing, no more nearly dying - I'm back for good."

Laura lets out a watery laugh and flings her arms around him, kissing him with everything she has, a kiss he returns with the same fervor. The moment is only broken when he pulls away to ask, "Hey - do you smell something burning?"

Everything had been more or less perfect after that, at least for a little while. When the kids came home to see their dad they had been ecstatic, and even more so when they learned that he would be back for good and wouldn't have to leave again. Clint took on some of the chores, helped Laura around the house, encouraged her to go back to work, which was something he knew she had wanted to do for a very long time, but had been unable to due to him being gone for long stretches of time with no one else to care for the children. He became, essentially, a stay-at-home dad, helping Cooper and Lila with their homework, driving them to and from school, making their lunches, going to any and all football games, dance tryouts, you name it, he was there. They were all happy; so, so, happy that he should have known it wasn't going to last. He had missed out on so much that it felt so good to be able to actually be there for once; to hear Nate's first words, be there when he first learned to walk, praise Lila's first 100% on a spelling test, cheer Cooper on when he scored a goal on the pitch. He loved getting to witness all the everyday, mundane moments that had been so rare in the past. They had even begun, tentatively, to talk about the possibility of having another kid, now that there were two full-time parents in the house.

But. But eventually, the feeling of wonder began to fade. The moments came one after another and they lost their shiny new sheen. They fell into a routine. And things began to fall apart.

Retrospectively, he thinks, it probably began with the first time he tried to call Nat.

Alone in the house, something that had been a rarity but lately seemed to occur more and more often, with Laura finally accepting a job at the local kindergarten a week ago, Clint thought of Natasha for the first time in what seemed like months. He immediately felt a stab of guilt and reached for the phone to call her, realising that it had probably been months since he'd heard her voice. They'd never gone this long without any contact before, and he's hit with another stab of guilt. He'd been so wrapped up in his new life that he'd completely forgotten about her, which was unforgivable. She was his best friend, and she'd been through so much recently; he should have thought to call her, at least.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang. Clint's eyebrows drew closer and closer together. When the voicemail monotone started he pulled the phone away from his ear, just to check he had the right number. Natasha _never_ ignored a call from him, unless - unless she was in a situation in which she had no choice. _Maybe she's in danger_ , he thinks, and is halfway out of his seat when he remembers that he's retired now, he can't just go running off on a whim to find her, and besides, she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself. He tries to call her again, just to make sure, but it goes to voicemail again. For the rest of the day, he's on edge, periodically trying to reach her, but it's always to no avail. He's restless, everything in him saying _find her, find her, find her,_ but he forces himself to relax. He's retired. And Natasha's a big girl; she doesn't need his help. Except he can't help but feel like he should be there for her, watching her back like he always has.

A week later, Natasha still hasn't answered her phone. None of the hundred calls he made have gone through, and he's seriously beginning to get worried about her. He hates not being in the loop; his phone has remained stubbornly silent all week, even though he keeps on high alert waiting for a call from her, even a message would do, but. Nothing. She's never been so silent for so long before, and he's _certain_ that something's happened to her. She could be lying dead in a ditch now and no one would know, and he's still just sitting here twiddling his fingers. Laura convinces him that she's just busy, maybe she's on some undercover op somewhere, but Clint is not convinced. She would find _some_ way to reach him. The only reason why she's gone silent must be because she's in trouble.

So he calls Steve. Last he checked, Natasha had been assigned him as her new partner, and if he's even half of what Clint was like as a partner surely he must know her whereabouts.

Steve picks up on the third ring. He barely even gets out a "Hello?" before there are words flooding out of Clint's mouth in a torrent.

"Have you seen Natasha? I think she's in trouble, I called her like a hundred times in the past week but she hasn't picked up, and I'm worried she might be in trouble -"

"Clint? Is that you?" Steve's voice sounds tinny over the phone speaker, and he sounds completely unbothered and calm, which Clint thinks is the opposite of what he should be.

" _Yes_ , it's me, but listen, Natasha -"

"Natasha? Oh, you just missed her, she just went out to do some shopping because the new recruits were pissing her off." Steve has the gall to laugh, and Clint is suddenly furious at how unfair it is that Steve is the one that gets to be with her while Clint is on the other side of the country. It's wrong, he knows it is, because he's supposed to be happy now he's gotten everything he's ever wanted. He's not supposed to care that Steve is Natasha's partner now. He should be happy she has someone like him looking out for her, but suddenly he doesn't care, suddenly he's fiercely wishing that he were there with her, cracking jokes to make her forget about how much training pissed her off.

"You guys aren't on a mission?"

"No, we're here at the compound. Been here since you left," says Steve. He sounds confused now, and Clint feels like his whole world is spinning off its axis.

"But -" Nothing makes sense now, and he's aware that he sounds like a whiny two-year-old when he says, "But she hasn't called me back in a week."

Even Steve's silence on the other end of the line sounds judgmental. "Well - she has been busy," Steve finally says. 

_She always made time for me_ , Clint thinks but doesn't say. He doesn't want to make even more of a fool of himself in front of Captain America, so he says, "Okay, well - when she comes back, can you tell her to call me?"

"Um. Sure thing," says Steve, palpable confusion in his voice. Clint promptly hangs up on him, face blazing with embarrassment. _Great_. He'd just called Steve for - what, exactly? To bitch to him like a toddler that _my friend is ignoring me_? _Ugh_.

Natasha does not call him back. But she does send a cursory text saying, _Sorry I didn't pick up. Been busy_. With an apologetic emoji. Clint doesn't know what to do with himself. Everything about those two lines screams _detachment_ , and while that's Natasha's default mode towards pretty much everyone he's never experienced it used on _him_ save for those first few months after he brought her in. He's struck with the unshakeable feeling that he did something wrong, but for the life of him he can't figure out what.

After that, things continue to go downhill. He texts Natasha, and often, sometimes multiple texts at a time, but she always waits at least three days to reply, and even then it's only maximum three lines and never more than one at a time. She's never felt so distant from him as she does now, and he absolutely _hates_ it. They used to be able to talk about anything and everything, she knew him better than he knew himself and he knew her better than anyone in the entire world including herself, and now ... now she's become a stranger. He hates it. The absence of her is a palpable thing, like the loss of an arm or a leg; she's been pretty much physically attached to his side for so long that to find her gone hurts more than anything in the world. What's that saying; _you don't know what you have until it's gone_? Yeah, that's a pretty accurate description of what Clint's feeling right now.

A couple months in, on a day when he's alone in the house and missing her more than ever, he even thinks that it was easier when he had her with him and was far away from his family than now, when she's gone and he has his family back at last. He hates himself for it, but he can't shake the thought and eventually it grows from a seed in his mind to a fucking gigantic tree, taking root and refusing to leave. On particularly bad days like this he regrets leaving her, regrets choosing to retire more than he's ever regretted anything in his entire life, and he utterly loathes himself because he has everything he's ever wanted now, and how could he ever want to give that up?

But the truth is: he would give everything up if he could just have her back.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	3. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into the past that Bucky and Natasha share, from Bucky's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italicised dialogue shows that Bucky and Natasha are speaking in Russian.

Bucky dreams. His body is still as a statue in the cryo chamber, but his mind is cut loose, wandering, repairing itself as the Wakandan doctors work day and night to fix what has been done to him. Cryo sleep has always been where Bucky's memories recover themselves, with a little help from the serum once there are no outside factors preventing his healing.

_ Red hair. Eyes as green as a lush forest. Soft whispers in his ears and kisses like fire. A name on the tip of his tongue. _

_ Natalia. _

**then.**

When he first sees her, she's unremarkable but for her scarlet hair, which makes her stand out in the crowd of twenty-eight girls just like her. Unfortunate, for a spy. Rule number one: never stand out. She's one of twenty-eight girls initiated into the Black Widow programme. Only one will survive. He doesn't know which of them it will be. He doesn't particularly care; no, he  _ cannot  _ care. He has been sent here to train them, to weed out the weak ones, and emotion is a weakness.

Five of them fall in the first training session, even though his orders were  _ no permanent damage _ and  _ no killing _ . They're young, barely eight years old if he had to hazard a guess; the second blood blooms they are wailing on the floor, and that can simply not be tolerated in the Red Room.

After the first five, the others learn.

The next time he emerges from cryostasis (he's not allowed to be kept out for too long; the device that wipes his memories is still underdeveloped and nobody is quite sure what its long term effect will be on him), the Widows have grown. They're maybe eleven years old now, and there are only sixteen of them left. 

He is not allowed to know their names. He is not allowed to speak to them. Doing so would cultivate emotion and destroy the assets.

Nevertheless, there is one name that he cannot help but remember. 

_ Natalia _ . The fiery, red-haired girl; the one praised the most for her sharp wit, quick reflexes and ruthlessness. There are already whispers that she will be the one to survive and become the Black Widow. The other girls hate her for it.

He does not have emotions, but he is curious about the glimmer he sees in her eyes as she snaps another girl's neck, sparking an unfamiliar sensation in him.

Looking back, he identifies it as empathy.

Natalia is thirteen, and there are only eleven girls left.

She has caught the attention of all of the higher-ups by now, and it is clear that she is the favoured one. She is a quick study, with relentless determination. There is a spark in her that cannot be extinguished; Madame thinks it is what will make her a great Black Widow. Bucky ( _ the Soldier _ ) thinks that it is what makes her dangerous. But he's not supposed to think anything at all.

He has not been wiped since he was brought to the Red Room. He's begun feeling little sparks of  _ something _ here and there, mostly when watching the girls being tortured, but he knows better than to let it show. He remembers Natalia, and his curiosity at the enigma she is is further piqued.

She watches him, too, sometimes. A glance here and there, never lingering, but he notices it. The spark of humanity in her has never dimmed, even as the Red Room tries its hardest to stamp it out, snuff it out entirely. She is a pearl, here in the darkness of the Red Room. He cannot help but watch her back.

The other girls are uninteresting. They are good, of course, the Red Room would never tolerate anything less, but it is becoming more and more evident by the day that none will ever be as good as her. They fade into the shadows; she alone stands out, shining brighter than the sun. He does not remember any name save for hers; that must mean that she is special.

He cannot let anyone know.

When Natalia is fifteen, they speak for the first time. 

He has been training her, one-on-one, for a year now. Madame had ordered it; she saw the potential in Natalia and was looking to stretch her towards her limits. She was their most promising candidate. They were mostly left alone, because the thought of fraternisation had not ever crossed Madame's mind; they are both assets, after all. Weapons. Things to be used. They do not have  _ feelings _ .

That is their downfall.

_ "You favour your right side too much, Natalia." _

She stops, wide-eyed, and stares at him. He looks at her in confusion.

_ "You said my name." _

His brows arch in surprise. Over the past year, he's talked to her plenty of times, all of them suggestions on her posture, form, reflexes. She has never responded; he supposes she has been told not to, to treat him like she would a weapon. This is the first time he's used her name; this is the first time she's spoken to him.

He does not reply, and her brow wrinkles a little.  _ "What is your name?" _

He opens his mouth, and finds he does not have an answer for her. He does not have a name. Mostly when speaking to him the handlers refer to him as "Soldier", or sometimes "it". He struggles to remember; a dim memory flashes by too fast to grasp, and then it's gone. He's been having a lot of these flashes nowadays, but nothing concrete. Not yet.

_ "I ... don't know." _

_ "Everyone has a name."  _ Her posture now is relaxed, arms hanging loosely at her sides, and he realises he's never seen her like this before. She almost seems like a regular girl, if not for the knife she still holds in one hand.

_ "You can call me Soldier, if you like." _

Something flashes in her eyes; he could almost call it sorrow. It's gone as quickly as it comes. She launches herself at him in the next instant.

_ "My name is James." _

She jerks, stumbling away from him. He does not press the advantage, instead opting to drop out of his fighting stance and wait for her to regain her balance. He doesn't know why he told her that. For all that they have slowly come to know one another - he does not dare say trust, not yet - she is still a Black Widow. She could betray him, tell their superiors, and then where would he be? Certainly not in the process of figuring out still hazy memories.

_ "James."  _ He likes the way it sounds on her tongue. She does not have an accent; it has long since been trained out of her. She is fluent in twelve languages, among them English. It sounds natural when she says it. It sounds ... right.

_ "That is not a Russian name." _

_ "I don't think I was Russian." _

She smiles at him, a tentative smile that somehow still lights up her entire face. It's the first time he's seen the expression on her face.  _ "I could tell from your atrocious accent." _

Is she ... teasing? He remembers that, jokes and laughter flying between him and ... and …  _ blondehairblueeyesscrawnyboy _ but the memory slips away.

The smile on her face fades. He's taken too long to answer.

_ "I do not have an accent,"  _ he says indignantly.

She rolls her eyes a little, sliding down to the floor. He takes the opportunity to sit down opposite her, so he can still see her face. This is ... nice. For a moment, he can pretend that they are not in the Red Room; they're just two friends talking.  _ Friends _ . He mulls the word over. He would like to be her friend.

_ "Where do you come from, James?" _

_ "I don't remember." _

She looks incredibly sad, just for a moment.  _ "What do you remember?"  _

Does she know? Does she know that he was taken apart from the inside out and remade, and now he is fracturing? 

_ "You." _

He rarely sees any of the other girls anymore. It's September now, three months away from Natalia’s sixteenth birthday, when she will undergo the ceremony and ascend to become the Black Widow. There are only two other girls left, backups in case anything happens. They are expendable. Natalia is not. All of them know this.

She is kept in a separate wing, isolated from all but him and occasionally, some of her handlers. She trains harder than ever before, winning more than half of their spars on a daily basis. He’s proud of her, but at the same time he is impossibly sad.

He has not been put in cryo since they started training together. He’s slowly begun to recover more memories, which have evolved from hazy feelings and impressions to faces and names. At night, he sneaks into Natalia’s room and they lie awake together while he whispers to her everything he’s remembered for fear that he’ll forget. So that even if he forgets, she will remember for him. In return, she tells him about her fears for the future, her burgeoning doubts about the Red Room and her desire to escape. Sometimes, they will whisper about plans of escape that will never come to fruition, and he will pretend to ignore the unshed tears shimmering in her eyes.

He thinks - no, he knows - that he loves her. But that’s another thing he can never say aloud. 

_ Love is for children. _

Natalia’s birthday is a bittersweet day. She will graduate today, and undergo the ceremony. Neither of them are sure of what it entails, and it makes both of them nervous. He does not want to let her go. Last night, as he lay awake to the sounds of her steady breathing in sleep, he had considered waking her and fleeing. They might have made it; the Red Room has become complacent with their goal in sight. Natalia has gone through plenty of horrors in her short life; he does not want her to go through the trauma of being a true Black Widow. He does not want to know what it will do to her. Most importantly, he does not want to lose her. In the span of two years, she has become everything to him.

In the early hours of the morning, he leaves for the other side of the facility and quickly, quietly, disposes of the two remaining girls. They are of no use to the Red Room now. As he snaps the last girl’s neck - a blonde, shorter than Natalia, with green eyes a shade lighter than hers - he realises that he still does not know their names.

Not that it matters, now. But he still feels his blood running cold as he steps back to observe their limp, broken bodies splayed out on the floor, blood staining the pure white floor. He closes their eyes. 

At least for them, their suffering is over.

Natalia is waiting for him, awake and alert, when he re-enters her room. She does not ask him where he’s been. There have been enough instances over the years where he’s disappeared on one mission or another, coming back to her with that bleak, haunted look in his eyes, that she knows what he needs. She wraps her lithe body around him and lets him grieve for the lives he’s taken. Then she pushes him away. They are both aware that, today of all days, they must be careful. No one must ever know about the relationship that they have cultivated. 

_ “They will be here soon,”  _ she says. There’s a tight set to her lips, and her hands tremble - only slightly, only noticeable to one such as him - as she steers him towards the window.  _ “You must go. They cannot find you here.” _

He looks at her, and he can see the fear in every line of her body, the longing with which she looks at the trees beyond the compound. It would be so easy, he thinks, to grab her and disappear into the forest. But he can already hear distant footsteps down the hallway, so he does the next best thing: he grabs her face impulsively and kisses her, trying to convey all his desperation and love in that one gesture. Then he turns and disappears soundlessly out of the window, even though every muscle screams at him to go back for her.

The next time he sees her, it’s two days after her birthday and a week before her first official mission as the Black Widow. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s something subtly different about her. It’s in the way she moves, the way she looks. It’s the glimpse of something immeasurably sad, something that speaks of an insurmountable loss in her eyes. He wants to take her in his arms and never let go, but the handlers are lurking by the doorway of the training room, so he exerts every ounce of his self-control to keep ducking and weaving around her kicks and punches.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before the handlers leave. He doesn’t get tired, but the strain of not knowing what happened to her is keeping him on edge. He’s thankful when Natalia pins him to the ground and all but collapses on top of him; he drops his dagger and simply wraps his arms around her, relishing in the feeling. They don’t speak, but he runs his hand up and down her back and she breathes into his neck, and it’s more intimate than anything he’s ever experienced before. It’s also very exposed; even though the handlers aren’t here anymore they could be back at any time, and he knows they should move but he can’t bring himself to take his hands off her.

She shifts, and the oversized shirt she’s wearing slides up her torso. His eyes catch on a new, horizontal scar near her abdomen, and he’s immediately on high alert. She hasn’t been on any missions for a month, preparing for her graduation, and they never let her keep the scars. This must be from graduation, then.

_ “What happened, Talia?” _

She looks down and instinctively tries to cover the scar, something like shame flashing over her face. He grasps her wrists lightly, stopping her movements. She turns her face away.

_ “Talia, what did they do to you?” _ His voice is calmer than he feels, but inside he’s seething with rage. He wants to tear all of them limb from limb for even daring to touch her.

_ “Love is for children,”  _ she whispers, almost to herself. A single teardrop lies, quivering, on her eyelashes; he watches, entranced. It is never allowed to fall.

_ “Natalia, please.” _

She closes her eyes.

_ “It was part of the ceremony. They told me it was so they could ensure my loyalty would never stray.” _ Her voice is emotionless, her gaze faraway. His eyes slide back to the scar.

_ “They cut my uterus out. I can never have children.” _

Two nights later, he’s woken in the middle of the night to a small, warm body slipping between his sheets. He knows Natalia’s body by touch alone now; it’s the only reason he doesn’t have his metal hand around her neck the minute she sits on the bed. Alarm bells begin ringing in his head frantically. Until now, it’s always been him going to her; they have long since stopped checking up on her in the night, but with him, it’s still touch and go. They also agreed that in the days since her graduation it’s far too dangerous to continue their nighttime routine, so for her to be here means something is seriously wrong.

She’s curled up to his chest, trembling and shaking. Carefully, he wraps his flesh hand around her.

_ “Natalia?” _

She can’t seem to stop shuddering, even as he draws the blankets tight around them and brings her closer to his body. He has a sinking feeling that it’s not because she’s cold. This is Russia, after all; it’s always cold. There’s also the fact that she’s even less susceptible to cold now that she has been given the serum, same as him.

She’s still trembling when she suddenly grabs his face and pulls him down into a deep and bruising kiss. There’s desperation and pain and anger in that kiss, and though he’s still concerned about her he can’t help but melt into it. They haven’t talked about the kiss he gave her the day of her graduation yet, but this is a good indication that she might return his feelings for her. Even though it may be fatal to both of them if they are found out.

For a while, the only sounds that can be heard in the room are the harsh sounds of their breathing and the rustling of the sheets. They devour each other, hands roaming everywhere, exploring each other with an urgency that belies the limited time they have. She slips her hand into his briefs, not breaking their kiss, and even though every muscle screams in protest, he gently pushes her away and sits up. In the dark, her eyes glow like emeralds, her hair lighting up like fire in the moonlight, and he can read the hurt clear as day in her eyes.

_ “What’s wrong, Talia?” _

She sniffles and pulls the covers tighter around herself, suddenly insecure. He pulls her close, feeling her lay her head on his shoulder. His nether regions throb uncomfortably at her closeness, but he ignores it. 

_ “They started the seduction lessons today. Tomorrow …” _ She doesn’t need to finish the sentence; he takes one look at her expression and gleans what she isn’t saying. Tomorrow, they will take her virginity. Teach her all the ways to pleasure a man at the cost of herself. The only reason they have left it until after graduation is because of the risk of pregnancy; now, though, it is no longer an issue, nor are most typical diseases, with the serum coursing through her veins. She must see the horror in his eyes, because she shrinks away, but he reels her in again, holding her fiercely.

_ “I don’t … I don’t want that to be my first,” _ she explains in a small, choked voice. There’s a rare vulnerability in her voice that he’s never heard before.  _ “James … will you …” _

_ “Yes. Yes,” _ he murmurs into her hair, his own voice choked, cutting her off before she can finish. He feels more than hears the sigh of relief she lets out.  _ “I would do anything for you, Natalia.” _

_ I love you _ , he thinks but does not say as their lips find each other again.

After the mission, they are both put into cryostasis. They are the only ones of their kind, meant to last forever, only taken out for missions of the highest calibre. They are partners more often than not, and they use the opportunity to continue their secret affair. His love for her only grows, but so does his yearning for another life, one where they won’t have to constantly look over their shoulders, one where they can enjoy every moment instead of only having stolen moments here and there. They talk about it, sometimes, but rarely, both knowing that there is nothing more painful than wishing for what you cannot have. The leash has only tightened over the years as the Soviet Union nears the brink of collapse, and they both know that one wrong move could topple it. Neither of them say it, but they hope that once the Union crumbles, they will finally find a way to be free. He holds steadfast to that hope, and in the meantime tucks away memories like treasures: dancing with Natalia in an overcrowded dance hall in Paris, her face when she tastes chocolate for the first time in Brussels, kissing her under the stars in a rural part of China. Hurried whispers of a distant future, where they would be free to love each other, far away from the oppression of the Red Room and Hydra.

_ “Natalia Barnes,” _ he says, tasting the name on his tongue. He likes it, and by the smile gracing her features, she does too. 

_ “Not Natalia,”  _ she says.  _ “Natasha. It’s a diminutive of Natalia, but it sounds … less Russian.” _ Her expression is tight, anxious; almost nervous as she looks up at him.

He smiles at her reassuringly. For all that they both have endured, he would endure every second of it again if only he got to love her, to hold her like this. It is the only time he feels truly safe.  _ “Natasha.”  _ It feels strange, but then again, if they ever do escape they will need new identities. _ “I like it. It suits you.” _

She cuddles in closer. She fits like a missing puzzle piece against his body.  _ “You would be called James,” _ she muses, still caught up in the fantasy.  _ “It is a common enough name, in America.”  _ She sighs, then, eyes clouding over with wistfulness.  _ “Someday,” _ she whispers under her breath, longing bleeding through in her voice. 

_ “Someday,” _ he agrees, holding her tighter.

_ Someday _ never comes.

His last memory is of her stoic face, eyes screaming all the emotion she cannot show but that he has always been able to see, before everything is washed away by pain.

He will never know that it is the memory of him, of them, lying under the stars promising  _ someday _ that makes her take the hand of the American archer who has come to kill her but instead is offering a chance for salvation and tell him,

“My name is Natasha.”


End file.
